Generation Dead

  "Look at all the guys in shades," Margi said, pointing to a row of stern-looking characters on the edge of the field. "Are they part of Armstrong's staff?"

  "The Men in Black. I guess they're ready for trouble. Maybe they think the undead belong at Roswell."

  "Dad," Phoebe said. Her father was a longtime conspiracy buff who liked to make people think he believed in flying saucers but didn't believe that man ever walked on the moon.

  "Thank you," Armstrong said, flashing a wide smile. "And thank you to the students and faculty of Oakvale High for inviting me on what is sure to be a historic event. One cannot help but think of the American athletes of the past who overcame obstacles of injustice and hate to go on to greatness. I am thinking of people like Jesse Owens. Greg Louganis. Billie Jean King. These people were willing to suffer through adversity and discrimination to participate in the sports that they loved, and in doing so, left a legacy that is an inspiration to all who would walk--or run--in their footsteps."

  Phoebe was marveling at how quickly Armstrong had silenced the crowd, and then someone shouted "necrophiliac" over the silence. Armstrong continued speaking as though he hadn't heard.

  "So I ask you, when you watch Thomas Williams take the field today, I ask you not to think of him as a living impaired young man, because clearly he does not consider himself to be impaired in any way. I ask those of you who would shame our country by singing our national anthem with a mask covering

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  your face not to think of him as a zombie or a freak or any of the other hate-filled terms you would seek to tag this brave young man with. I ask that you forget also, for the moment, that he is differently biotic--I ask only that you consider him an athlete, and in that, he is no different than the other young men set to play today. Thank you."

  "He's good," Mr. Kendall said, joining the girls in clapping.

  Despite the fine oratory, Tommy didn't play the entire first half. Adam did his job well and gave Denny time to pass on most plays, although Denny was sacked for a loss on a play where Adam blocked right and Denny ran left. Pete Martinsburg had one interception and seemed to take a special delight in shoving opposing players into the sidelines. Thornton Harrowwood was allowed to carry the ball on a play and was crushed after a three-yard gain.

  "Ow," Margi said. "I hope he gets up."

  He did, and strutted as though he'd just carried the ball seventy yards for a touchdown.

  "You have to admire his pluck," Phoebe said.

  "Yes. He is a plucky young man."

  Her dad looked at them, squinting. "What are you two talking about?"

  At halftime the score was ten all. Harris Morgan scored on a thirteen-yard pass in the corner of the end zone, and the Badgers tied it up with a field goal just as time expired.

  Armstrong came back onto the field after a short but loud performance by the Badger Band. "Wow, what a game," he said. "Let's hear it for these athletes." Most people, even the

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  protestors, were more intent on getting a hot dog or a soda than they were on recognizing gridiron accomplishments, and again, the reception Armstong was given was lukewarm at best. "I'd like to talk briefly about the Hunter Foundation for the Advancement of Differently Biotic Persons. As you are well aware, the foundation is committed to the study--physiological, psychological, and perhaps most important, sociological-- of differently biotic persons. The goal of the foundation is, through scientific study, to help create a world where all people, regardless of their biology, can live and learn together. I encourage you to show your support for differently biotic children everywhere through a donation of time or money to the foundation, with offices located right here in Oakvale. Thank you."

  Phoebe saw a policeman talking to a guy in a Frankenstein mask in the bleachers across the field. The conversation didn't look pleasant.

  "I'm amazed that the coach hasn't put the Williams boy into the game," Phoebe's father said.

  The Williams boy . At least he hadn't said "the dead kid." Phoebe thought. "I don't think Coach Konrathy is very excited about putting him in."

  "Everyone else is."

  "That's the problem," Phoebe replied.

  "I think he needs to put the kid in at this point," he said. "You've got half the crowd ready to throw a fit if he goes in, the other half ready to riot if he doesn't. You can feel the tension rising."

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  Frankenstein must have lost the discussion, because he was preceding the policeman down the bleacher steps. Every few steps he'd stop and turn as though tossing insults over his shoulder.

  "If I'm Konrathy," her dad said, "I'm putting him in at the start of the half."

  But he wasn't Konrathy, and Konrathy let Williams ride the bench throughout the quarter. Oakvale scored again on a quarterback draw after another nice reception from Harris Morgan. Norwich led a gritty march downfield and into the red zone, but Pete Martinsburg picked off a screen pass and ran it back ten yards before being tripped up. It was the play that served to break the spirit and chances of the opposing team, but Phoebe could not bring herself to cheer.

  "That was a nice play," her dad said, nudging her.

  "Pete Martinsburg is evil, Mr. Kendall," Margi said.

  "Ahh," he replied, and stopped clapping.

  Phoebe shot Margi a look so that she wouldn't begin explaining just how evil Pete Martinsburg had been.

  Margi returned her look, and stuck out her tongue.

  The Badgers kept the ball on the ground, and three plays later they had a first down on a six-yard carry by Thornton Harrowwood. Again he was leveled, and again he sprang up as if he hadn't been touched.

  "That little guy is pretty tough," Mr. Kendall said, stifling a yawn. The volume of the crowd tapered off and then rose again as Tommy Williams fastened the strap on his helmet and trotted onto the field.

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  "He finally put him in! And these knuckleheads are booing. That just isn't right." Her dad clapped louder, and Phoebe and Margi joined him. Someone hit Margi in the back of the head with a french fry, and another sailed past Phoebe's face as she turned around.

  Her dad stood up and scanned the upper rows, but whoever it was hid the remainder of their deep-fried missiles.

  "Coward," he called, and sat down.

  "Not worth it, Dad," Phoebe said.

  "It never is," he said. "Looks like Williams is on the line next to Adam. This ought to be interesting."

  Mackenzie took the snap and dropped back five steps. Adam and Tommy gave him plenty of time, and he completed an out to Harris Morgan, who let himself get pushed out of bounds. The second play went much the same way, but this time with a curl up the middle of the field so as to keep the clock running. The Badgers were past midfield with a first down, so they ran the next two plays and got short yardage. The next play was third and one, and they ran a draw where Denny pitched the ball to Harris, who swept around to the left behind Adam and Tommy. The hole they left him was big enough to drive a moving van through, and Harris sprinted, juking the one tackier who had a chance, and ran forty yards into the end zone without anyone getting close to him.

  The Badger fans cheered, but the Badger players were met with a barrage of fruit as they trotted back to the bench. A flurry of a dozen or so tomatoes sailed from the lower levels of the bleachers, most of them hitting Adam, who stepped in front

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  of Tommy the moment the throwing began. Someone tagged Konrathy in the head with an apple.

  The stocky cop who had escorted Frankenstein out earlier headed over to that section of the bleachers, waving to a policeman on the other side of the stadium. There was a lot of shouting and pointing and some shoving, but by the time the cops got there, all the evidence was out on the field and it didn't look like the witnesses were planning to go on record.

  "That was pleasant," her father said, shaking his head.

  The Badgers won, 24--10. Tommy Williams did not take the field again.

  "You understand
why I am uncomfortable about this," her dad said.

  "I'll be careful, Daddy."

  "You know it has nothing to do with my trust in you. But some of these idiots in the stands ..." "I know, Daddy. I'll be careful."

  "Careful doesn't help if some knucklehead has a gun, or a grenade."

  "I know," she said, wondering how many people actually had a stockpile of grenades lying around the garage for day-today use.

  He looked at her and at Margi, who was lingering by the fence, pretending not to be listening to their conversation.

  "We didn't come here so Margi could watch Adam, did we?"

  Phoebe smiled. "We didn't come here so Margi could not watch Adam, either."

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  "Phoebe, who ..."

  "I'll be back in fifteen minute," she said. "Promise."

  He raised his hands in resignation. She skipped away to drag Margi over to the exit where the players, freshly showered, would be emerging from the school. She looked back at her father, but he was already squinting at the people they passed as though scanning for signs of impending mayhem and destruction.

  "My dad never would have let me go," Margi said. "You think he knows you've got the hots for a zombie?" "Margi!"

  "Well, does he? He's pretty sharp about you. He pays attention. I think I could set my head on fire in the living room and my dad would ask my mom what we were having for supper."

  "I have a very cool father," Phoebe said, "and I do not have the hots for Tommy. I'm just...interested, that's all." "Whatever."

  "Dad thinks that we came here so you could drool over Adam. A very plausible cover story, by the way, and one that he swallowed completely. He's sharp, like you say."

  Margi made a disgusted noise and slapped Phoebe's arm, and then chased her to the back door of the school.

  "Uh-oh," Margi said as they rounded the corner. The protest had moved to the exit, as had the Channel Three mobile news van. The stocky cop was escorting Adam through the crowd. The reporter from the mobile news van walked alongside, shouting questions.

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  "What was it like playing with a living impaired kid? Were you surprised at the crowd's reaction today?"

  Adam was about as big as the cop. He glared at the protestors, but allowed the cop to lead him through without stopping. Thornton Harrowwood was next, and his appearance on the arm of a young female state trooper drew attention away from Adam.

  "Do you have any comment about today's game?" the reporter asked. "What do you think of all the controversy surrounding your teammate?"

  "I carried for nineteen yards!" Thornton said, smiling into the camera.

  Adam thanked the cop and joined Phoebe and Margi. "Hey," he said.

  "You smell like spaghetti sauce," Margi told him.

  "Har-har," he replied. "I don't think I'm going to wash my uniform. Maybe opposing teams will think it is the blood of my enemies."

  "Where's Tommy?" Phoebe asked. "How is he doing?"

  "He didn't say much," he said, and then raised his hands after catching something in Phoebe's expression. "I'm not trying to be funny. He didn't cry or anything. But he was clearing out his locker."

  "Sooo ...what? What does that mean?"

  "I don't know, Phoebe. I asked him if he was okay, and he said he was. That was about it. They're sneaking him out of one of the other exits so he can avoid all this," he said, waving his hands at the cluster of restless protestors awaiting Tommy's

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  exit. Stavis and Martinsburg pushed through alongside the stocky cop, but the protestors didn't have anything to say to the other players. Even the Channel Three guy was getting bored. They overheard him ask the cop if they took the dead kid out another way.

  "Yeah," the cop said, smiling. "He's long gone."

  "I have to get out of here," Adam said. "The STD said I've got to rake up the leaves. Need a ride?"

  "No thanks. My dad brought us."

  "Okay," he said. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot--Tommy Ballgame asked me to give you this."

  He held out a piece of notebook paper folded into an uneven square.

  She opened the note and read it to herself, shielding it from Margi's prying eyes.

  "He wants to know if I want to go out some night next week." She looked first at Adam for his reaction, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

  "Ick," Margi said. Phoebe hit her. "Ouch. Out , like as in a date?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's just weird."

  "Shut up, Margi."

  "What else does he say?" she said, trying to scan the paper. "None of your business," Phoebe replied, snatching it away. "You gals have fun," Adam said. "I'm off to rake leaves." Phoebe watched him leave, wishing that she could tell what Adam thought about her and Tommy, while at the same time

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  whispering a death threat to Margi should she breathe a word of the note to her father.

  Pete Martinsburg watched the dead kid escape out the back door and head out toward the woods, avoiding both the reporters and the food-throwing brainiacs from the stands. Pete debated running after him, but there were a pair of cops making sure he made it without being bothered, so Pete just watched him slip away, undetected by any of the other people who had something to say about a worm buffet playing on a high school football team.

  Before the dead kid left, though, he'd made a point of standing next to Pete's locker, blocking Pete from getting to his things. He stood there with his twisted half grin on his face, as though saying to Pete, "What you can do, I can do. Watch out." It was a subtle point and one made for Pete alone.

  Pete did something he'd done only once before when faced with a confrontation: nothing.

  The zombie was in his head, stomping around with cleats. Pete could only see one way to get him out of there.

  After watching the zombie enter the woods, Pete walked back to the locker room, his jersey in hand. Someone had tagged him with an egg just before the game ended. He'd been standing on the sidelines, waiting for the offense to score again, so he could get in and put the hurt on someone, when he'd felt it splat against the small of his back. The dead kid hadn't even been close to him when the egg hit.

  He got his locker open and threw the jersey into it, where it

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  stuck to the back wall before sliding down and leaving a viscous trail.

  "Yeah, bay-beee!" Stavis yelled, his pale lumpy body nearly plowing into Pete as he stood staring at the yolk trail. "The Badgers win again!"

  Idiot, Pete thought. Stavis was holding a blue towel that he'd managed--just--to wrap around his wide waist. He punched Pete in the shoulder, and it took Pete conscious effort not to drive his fist into his grinning moon face.

  "Pete, did you see that sack I made?" Stavis said, withdrawing a stick of deodorant from his locker. "Blindside hit, wham! Coughed up the ball and everything."

  Pete counted to three so that he could choke back his initial response.

  "I missed it," he said. "I was downfield covering that tall kid. Belton, I think his name was."

  "Yeah, you shut him down today, man," Stavis replied, chucking Pete's shoulder again with the hand that had been holding the towel while swiping the deodorant onto his pits in a manner that Pete thought insufficient to mask or prevent any odors. "What did he have? One catch the whole game?" Two.

  "Shut down!" Stavis said, tossing the deodorant back in his locker, where it clanged against the metal walls. He then turned and raised his arms over his head for a double high five.

  Pete left him hanging. "Out back," he said. "I want to talk to you. Bring Harris, too."

  After they were dressed, he led them outside and back to

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  the field, taking a seat on the bleachers. Wilson the janitor was going to be pissed, he thought, there was so much food and crap all over the seats and aisles.

  As soon as they were seated on the bleacher below, Pete started his speech.

  "We're the Pain Crew, right?" he
said.

  "Hell yeah!" Stavis bellowed, and Harris nodded. This was a promotion for him.

  "And the Pain Crew is all about what?"

  "Inflicting pain on our enemies," Stavis said, rubbing his thick hands together. "Like we did today."

  "That's right, TC," Pete said, smiling. "Like we did today. But we weren't the only ones who inflicted pain, were we?"

  TC looked puzzled, so Harris helped him out. "The crowd," he said. "I got hit with a goddam carrot." He shook his head. "Who throws a carrot?"

  Pete clapped him on the back. "I got egged, man. Don't feel so bad." He looked at them both in turn. "Yeah, the crowd. But why was the crowd throwing stuff at us?"

  "The dead kid," his subjects answered, in unison.

  "That's right," Pete said. "The dead kid."

  He took the blue paper with the work study students listed out of his shirt pocket. He unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the bleacher between them.

  "This paper has the names of a bunch of dead kids, and the living kids that love them. Adam Layman's name is there, as is Scarypants's--Phoebe Kendall."

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  "Her little friend is in that class, too. Pinky McKnockers," Stavis said. "Thorny is too, I think."

  "Yeah," Harris said, nodding. "Coach lets those two and Williams miss practice once a week to go to that thing. And he wouldn't even let me leave early for my grandmother's birthday party."

  "Believe me, Morgan, Coach isn't happy about it. Kimchi ordered him to let them go. If he had his way, they wouldn't be going, and the zombie wouldn't even be on the team." He looked at each of them, his fingers tapping on the paper. "Which is why we really need to do something about this."

  "You mad 'cause we got punked by those zombies in the woods, huh, Pete?" Stavis said.

  Pete wanted to hit him, but he still needed him, so he continued to drum with his fingers on the page.

  "Sure, that's part of it. We can't let anybody punk the Pain Crew, ever. But it is more than that. We need to do something because what's going on isn't right . Dead ... things walking around, going to school, playing for the Badgers? It isn't right. This whole crap about living impaired and differently biotic is just crap . These things aren't even human. I read some stuff that says they're demons or signs of the end of the world or something-- and it's probably true."